Angel of Darkness
by General San3
Summary: Slightly AU fanfic - Christine is happily married and hiding from her past in Ireland, when old memories come back to haunt her. Phantom/Christine


_**Prologue**_

The man limped down the street, his face muffled under layers of heavy woolen garments and shadowed by a wide-brimmed felt hat. His gait was uneven, and his hand clutching his heavy wooden cane was tight, as if at some suppressed pain. Rain pattered down onto the uneven cobblestones of the street, trickled down the stone facings of the weathered buildings, and in the fading light of evening, the crippled man was the only living thing to be out on the streets on this wet night. The hand that did not hold the gnarled head of the cane was clutched at his side, holding a wet and crumpled playbill. What little could be seen of the faded ink read in exuberant, sweeping text;

_GRAND OPENING!  
The Grand Opera house, Belfast, will open its doors for the first time on the 23rd of December, 1895, at 6 o'clock in the evening. Those who attend this gala opening will be the first to partake of the latest opera written by the genius playwright, E. Clancy, and the lead part will be sung by none other than his wife, the beautiful Christine Clancy. Tickets can be purchased for the criminally low price of . . ._

As if the man had thought of what was written on the worn paper, his fist clenched more tightly around it. Ahead of him, lights shone bright in the mist, and the sound of a vast crowd echoed through the stone streets. The Grand Opera was opening its doors.

_**Chapter One: The Ghost**_

Smoothing down her mane of curly brown hair, Christine Clancy glanced at her reflection in the mirror that was set in the wall behind her dressing table. The eyes that glanced back at her were wide, brown, and ingenuous, set in a pale oval face over a small nose and wide lips painted red. She adjusted the neckline of the pale green gown she was wearing and sighed in vexation. "Green has never been my color, Erik," she complained, seemingly to an empty room.

As if she had summoned, a panel of the wallpapered wall next to her dressing table slid open, and a tall man dressed entirely in black emerged, wearing a white mask that covered the right half of his face and an amused grin. "You look beautiful in anything, my love," he said, "and it's only for one night. Then we can return to our exile . . ."

"You may feel exiled," Christine retorted, reaching out for his hand, "but I have never been happier. The stage is too . . . open. I feel exposed. Too many eyes watching." She shook her head. "At least you can still hide."

"I'm afraid it is probably my fault you feel so ill at ease in the spotlight," Erik said, gently taking her hand.

"You did explain to the owner that we would only appear on the opening night, Erik?" Christine said anxiously.

"Frank Matcham is a stubborn man, but I was most insistent," Erik said dryly. "I explained that my wife's nerves were too delicate to take the strain . . . what is it, Christine?" He said this in a tone of some alarm, for his wife's face had gone even paler, and her fingers had tightened on his.

"I - I felt the strangest chill . . . like a ghost had set his pale fingers at my throat." She turned wide, frightened eyes on her husband, a swallow moving down her pale, smooth throat.

Erik hid his own disquiet behind a smile. "Child, you are far too easily taken in by fright! It was only a draft - here . . . let me close the window . . ." He turned and easily reached the window, which was set onto the other side of her mirror - even though Christine continued to cling to his hand, and shut it completely with a bang. "There - the careless staff, leaving it open . . ." But his penetrating dark eyes swept every corner of the room, pausing in the shadows cast by the flickering candles. "You'll catch a chill in this drafty climate and then you won't be able to sing at all!"

Christine responded with a tremulous smile. "At least then we shall really be able to escape the clutches of the estimable Monsieur Matcham . . ."

He smiled. "I, at least, will find it a great pleasure to hear you sing on stage once more, even if you will not."

She looked at him, some anxiety still burning behind her brown eyes. "You will watch me from your usual box, won't you?"

Erik laughed, and took her hand in both of his. "Even if I must destroy Monsieur Matcham's prize chandelier . . . yes."

She smiled. "It's good to hear you speak of those days so long ago. Just remember your promise, Erik." This was spoken half in jest, half in earnest, and although Erik smiled, his eyes were darkened.  
"I always remember my promises, Madame," he said, pressing her white hand to his lips. "Now, I must away before some young fool steals my box beside the stage!" Then he was gone again into the secret passage behind the wall in a swirl of black cloak.

Christine watched him go, smiling. Then she picked up an ivory-handled brush from her dressing table and began to tidy her curls. As she pinned up the heavy mass in a bundle on the back of her head, she began to hum - a strange tune, sad and wistful and full of longing. She adjusted the green dress again, then her eyes drifted to the darkened window beside her mirror. She shuddered.

_I have seen a ghost,_ she thought. _And those eyes . . ._

She dropped her brush at a loud knock on the door. _It's time,_ she thought wildly, _no time for hiding anymore._ Then her mind caught up with her senses. _The ghost would not have knocked . . ._

"Who is it?" she called out softly, one hand at her throat as if to keep her heart's wild beating from showing.

"Keegan O'Hara, ma'am," called a young man's voice. "Manager says your cue is in five minutes."

Christine reached down to recapture her fallen brush from the thick maroon carpet. "Thank you, Keegan," she replied. "I will be out momentarily."

As she returned her brush to its place among the debris on her dressing table, her eyes drifted once again to the now-closed window, dark, with streaks of cold rainwater running in thick runnels down the panels. The apparition had been so real, the face, so cold - the eyes, so familiar.

_"Say you love me . . ."_ she had told him.

_"You know I do," _he had replied.

So sweet, so brief, their moments of happiness.

She stood a bit unsteadily. _It is hardly surprising that the past has come again to haunt me,_ she thought. _Tonight, once again, I sing in the Phantom's opera._

Then she stood, with a rustle of green silk, and walked out the door with her head held high.

* * *

CHRISTINE

_Had she been mad, in those last few hours, when the time had come, when it was too late to turn back? She didn't think so. Her head felt clearer than ever before - it truly was a point of no return. She had known, although she had dared to think otherwise, that the man who haunted her dreams was real, no spectre, and that the night of the opera . . . _Don Juan Triumphant _- would decide all their fates once and for all. She had felt so right, so sure in her movements, in her expressions, her mind clear as she stepped into his embrace and then . . . taken his last hiding place from him. The white mask that taunted her when sleeping or waking._

_  
That moment was when all control seemed stripped from her grasp. She had known, then, that he was no angel. A demon of music, maybe, a fallen angel. In the moments before he had violently plunged her back into his world of cold and darkness, she had seen Raoul's face, horrified and pale._

_  
Perhaps madness of a kind had come upon her then - the wild fear that . . . no, she would never see Raoul again. Never, perhaps, see the sun or hear a bird sing. Trapped in a sunless world where the only music belonged to the night._

_  
She had wanted to weep, but she could not. She had gone into the void, and emerged again into the open air._

_  
And now she never regretted her choice. Now, the demon _was _her only sunlight._

* * *

In the darkness of his box, high up on the right side of the stage, in a comfortable chair lined with crimson velvet, Erik was frowning. The introduction to his opera, _le Peu Diabolique_, was being played, and that blasted cello _still _was too sharp! He fidgeted in his seat, wishing for a moment for the old days, when he would have bellowed a challenge from a hiding spot behind a fat-bellied Cupid, or maybe just garroted the man . . . _best not to entertain such thoughts. I might become seriously tempted._

He allowed himself a tight smile. _Christine's cue is in just a few moments. Then I can lose myself in the beauty of her voice . . ._

Distracted, his mind returned to the strange way that his wife had behaved in her dressing room.  
_. . . like a ghost had set his pale fingers at my throat . . ._ Erik had not liked the words she had used. They conjured up too many memories, as did this opera house. He would be glad to put it all behind him, return to live in peace in their rambling country mansion, writing operas for Frank Matcham to exclaim over, but nevermore to see an opera house with his living eyes.

That, he thought, would be true peace. True happiness. To forget the past and live where he could always see Christine, always hear her soft, rich humming echoing through the old, drafty halls of the house they shared. He smiled, contented by this thought.

Then, in a shimmer of green that was caught and magnified by the spotlight which picked her out of the crowd onstage, there she was. Pale, but that was probably just nerves.

Still, he cast a grim glance around the room. If there was another ghost haunting Christine in this opera, then he had best be ready. But now . . .

He looked down at her. Her musical cue, a haunting violin solo that made him think of his days spent with the Gypsies, began to sing throughout the hall. Then he tensed, waiting for her first note. It was high, but he had no doubts that she would hit it without any trouble.

And she did, her pure voice stealing into every corner of the crowded opera house as she sang in tones of sorrow and longing as Catherine, the woman who had lost her love in a terrible war and now was willing to do anything to save him.

_Even make a deal with the devil . . ._ Erik thought.

His box was purposefully in deep shadow, yet he knew that Christine could see him as she picked her way through the crowd with the grace and delicacy of a ballerina, her aria continuing as the stage emptied around her. She made no sign, her face a mask of tragedy and despair, but her enormous dark eyes searched the boxes set beside the stage, pausing when she saw him. A slight smile graced her face, tinged with infinite sadness.

_She is such a tremendous actress,_ he thought, smiling back. He knew that all she could see was his mask, pale in the light reflected from the stage.

A flash of light heralded the arrival of the little demon of the title, beckoning to Catherine, luring her with promises of hope. At first, she resisted, frightened - yet still tempted. Then, the spectre of her lover, grey and unseeing, passed by in a cloud of mist. She held on to him, trying to recall her face to his dead memory, but he vanished from her grasp and she sank to the ground, weeping.

Then the demon crept up to the despairing woman and, in a song that was persuasive and gentle, told her that she could have him again . . . they would be together . . . only _follow me_ . . .

And she did, standing shakily, turning her head away as if unable to look at the vile creature which took her by the hand. As she began a sorrowful song, she glanced at Erik once again, then her eyes traveled onwards . . .

And then the unthinkable happened. Christine Clancy faltered in the middle of a note, her hand darting to rest at the base of her throat, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

There was a moment of silence, as everyone waited in surprised silence. Half-risen from his seat, Erik felt his entire body tensing, preparing itself for whatever awaited.

The little demon, turning slightly towards the voiceless soprano, said _sotto voice _to her, "Mrs. Clancy? Are you all right?"

She jerked her head toward him, then away, then slowly turned back, taking in a deep breath. "_Je_ . . . _Je suis désolée -_forgive me. Maestro . . .?" She turned to the orchestra pit. "From the beginning of the aria, please?"

Sinking back into into his comfortable chair, Erik felt a vein throbbing in his temple. Something was wrong. This entire operation had been a mistake from the start. _I should never have brought her into this . . ._

He watched her with great intensity throughout the rest of the opera, as the character of Catherine began her long, slow descent into madness and despair, thoughts of self-reprimand floating through his mind.

_Nothing more than an artist's whim . . . the desire to show off . . . even risked Christine . . . nevermore! We'll stay in the country, move far away again if that's what's needed . . . to America, perhaps - make a new life . . ._

In the last moments of the opera, Catherine's lover, restored to life, rejected the wicked creature that she had become and left her, bereft, alone on the stage. As the final notes rang out, the little demon, grown into a monster of huge proportions and ghastly appearance, came out. In a gesture that was simple and touchingly defenseless, the tragic figure of the woman held out her hands to him - and he bound her wrists and pulled her after him, leading her offstage into flickering orange light that was meant to represent the flames of hell.

_Or maybe,_ Erik found himself thinking, _perhaps it isn't Hell after all . . . after all, I always meant for the demon to love her, even if he did bring about her utter misery . . . perhaps he saves her from her loneliness and pain . . ._

* * *

ERIK

_There was always fear, in the hiding. He had never learned to be completely without fear, but __sometimes the exhilaration of brilliant illusion and deceit kept him from tasting the bitter tang of fear, fear of being hunted, tracked down, from his mouth. Fear kept him from hearing any music, all music but the thumping drumbeat of his own heart._

_  
When Christine was with him, it was always there, in the back of his throat. They had made their way safely, anonymously, to the docks of London, but when Eric saw the headlines of the newspapers that were being sold on the streetcorners, he had no rest in England. Thank goodness Christine couldn't read English . . ._

_  
He was terrified, however, that she would hear something, some familiar name would strike a chord and she would ask questions that he could not answer. So he bought passage to Ireland, hearing of secluded cottages where a man and his wife could live their days without fear of being noticed by anyone._

_  
It was on the bumpy boat ride across the grey Irish sea that the first echoes of the music started to come back . . . where _le Peu Diabolique _was born._

* * *

Christine's hands were shaking when she entered her dressing room. She tried to hide them in the folds of her crimson velvet gown, for Erik was waiting for her, as she had known he would, his face set in a neutral expression that worried her more than if he had been scowling.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said quietly, shutting the door behind her to keep out the crowd of well-wishers. "I - I don't know what came over me. Memories, perhaps."

"I should never have let you do this," Erik said in a clipped tone.

There, she had known he would start blaming himself. She wanted to take his hands and protest that for a genius, he was remarkably silly . . . but how did she know, for a truth, that it was _not_ his fault? She could not know. So she merely went and sat in her chair and began taking her hair down. "The blame is partly mine," she said, glancing at him in the mirror as a long coil of dark hair fell, to lay against the back of her neck. "I should not have . . . have worried myself so. There was nothing you could have done, I didn't . . . I couldn't tell you."

Erik stirred. "Are you going to tell me now, whatever it is?"

Christine hesitated. "You remember, you made me a promise, the day I married you . . ."

"Yes, Christine, I remember. And I have kept my promise."

"I know you have. But . . . but, sometimes . . . when it was dark and my mind would wander I - I wondered, sometimes, what you might . . . might have done _before_ you made that promise."

He shifted, his face not quite as stony. "You _know_ what I did, Christine. What I was."

Sliding the chair of her boudoir back a little, she opened a small drawer that was full of odds and ends of makeup, brushes, and little trinkets of the theater. Underneath was a single page torn from a newspaper, _The London Times_, dated 1881. Christine took this out and turned to hold it out for her husband. He took it, staring at it unseeingly for a moment, then handed it back.

"I have seen it," he told her softly. "But you must understand, Christine, if I never mentioned it, I only meant to spare you further grief, I never . . . I did not . . ."

She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. "Erik, I loved him - that is true. I wish him well, still. But if it is true - this is upon both our consciences. I know that. I see him haunting me, when I dream - when I sing." Biting her lower lip, she lowered her head and let her long hair fall over her face, trying to hide her tears. Erik moved so silently, she didn't know that he had crossed the room until he knelt in front of her and took her hands in his own.

"You must not cry, love," he said. "We'll go away. We'll stay out of sight. We'll be happy . . ."

Christine reached out to touch the ivory mask that covered the right side of his face. "Erik, we cannot hide forever. Not from the demons that haunt us."

The crowd outside was growing boisterous - from the shouts that she could hear outside the door, Christine suspected some type of alcohol was being distributed. Erik glanced at the door. "Let us hide as long as we can, then - shall we return home, Madame?"

As he pulled her through the secret door, the paper clipping was disturbed by the wind of her passing skirts and floated off her boudoir onto the plush carpet. It was a headline and it read:

Tragic Death of Young Vicomte in Opera House Fire

* * *

_Author's note: Please R&R! The final chapter is coming!_


End file.
